


Spectacles

by Aithilin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Sherstrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:31:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes to the realization that Lestrade is getting older. He doesn't like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spectacles

The glasses— bifocal reading glasses, thin rimmed, unobtrusive, a distinct pattern of scratching on the arms where they had been hooked into jacket pockets rather than a case— were folded on top of the book that rested on Lestrade’s nightstand. Sherlock stared at them in confusion, surely he hadn’t missed something like this. The glasses were at least a year old, prescription lenses given that each was a different strength.

"C’mon, sunshine. Breakfast is getting—"

"Since when do you need reading glasses?"

They were clearly Lestrade’s. They were on his nightstand, on top of his book. They were clearly in regular use, but were likely the only pair if the wear and tear was anything to go by.

"I don’t know, about a year?" Lestrade patted the lump under the blankets that was Sherlock’s hip and collected the discarded clothes for the wash. "Up, lad."

"Why would you need glasses? You see perfectly fine." There was a bit of niggling doubt in the back of his mind. Surely Lestrade hadn’t changed that much in his absence. Lestrade never changed.

"Getting old, Sherlock. Now are you going to get up today?"

It took longer than normal to process the information. Lestrade couldn’t get old. He wasn’t meant to. In a sulk at the idea, Sherlock pulled the blankets over his head and ignored the annoyed mutterings of his lover— his older lover— as he went about tidying up.

He didn’t want Lestrade to get old. To lose parts of himself to age— he was a detective (mostly), would bad eyes force him to retire? What if there were other problems? He had complained about his back 4.67 (cut off mid-sentence when Sherlock interrupted him with more interesting information) times in that past week. What if it only got worse? If he started to forget things? Started to—

"I can hear you worrying, sunshine." The hand returned to his hip and Sherlock felt the familiar weight dip the bed as Lestrade sat on it’s edge.

"I’m not worrying."

"And I’m not blind as a bat when it comes to small print."

Sherlock huffed and pushed the blankets down to glare. “You’re not. You’re not blind.”

"I’m not. What’s worrying you."

"Don’t get old."

"Can’t really stop it, love. It’s what happens."

"I don’t want you to."

Lestrade smiled, that half grin that still looked just a touch roguish when he had a mind to tease or play a bit of mischief. Sherlock loved that smile.

"How about this, sunshine; you get up for the day and we go out. Maybe stop by the office and pick up Gregson’s string of thefts for you to look at." He put a hand against Sherlock’s mouth to quiet whatever complaint Sherlock would have offered; "and when you’ve worked off this sulk, we go to dinner and plan getting old together?"


End file.
